


The Blood Witch King

by Pi_Cloud



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Blood Magic, Gen, I wrote this for English class then finished it for fun, Lady Macbeth is Hecate, People are witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25091056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pi_Cloud/pseuds/Pi_Cloud
Summary: Lady Macbeth is Hecate and she engineers the whole thing so she can be queen. Lotsa blood magic and stuff.I wrote Act I and Act II for English class, then the rest for fun because I was bored.
Relationships: Macbeth/Lady Macbeth





	The Blood Witch King

Act I

From out of the fog and filthy air, a cloaked form emerges. Nothing can be seen from the dim moonlight but her blood red lips. She steps into a cold, damp cave, shrugging off her cloak only once she is unable to be seen from without the cave. Long red lines spiral around her now bare arms, stopping at her wrist.“Hello, my sisters,” her chilled voice says, “How go our preparations?”

“Very well, Lady,” says one witch, with identical lines marking her skin, “We just need one vial of his blood.” Drops of blood drip down the rat’s limp form as they stain the circle of sand on the cave floor.

The Lady grins, procuring the vial from her purse. “Here you go. Use it well, as we won’t have time to get more should we have any spills.” Her icy gaze whips toward a short witch.

“Sorry Lady,” the witch squeaks.

“Is that all?” the Lady says, “I have a husband to greet.”

The witches vigorously nodded, visibly slumping in relief when the Lady departed from the cave. They worked better without the vigilant eye of the Lady, a gaze which constantly seemed to be waiting to catch their smallest error.

Meanwhile, the Lady leaped off of the precipice entrance to the cave, trails of blood running down her arms as her hair streams behind her. Then, Hecate vanished without a trace.

Macbeth and Banquo walked through the mountainous region, happily discussing their recent victory over the Irish and Norweigan armies. They were oblivious to the darkening clouds gathering over them, until all of the sudden they were struck silent by a thunderous crack. Startled, they looked up, and saw clouds spreading across the horizon as far as the eye could see. Pounding hail then began to fall from the skies, pummeling the two soldiers.

Muttering expletives, they ducked into the closest cave to them, hoping to wait out the storm. The inside of the cave was murky, and somehow managed to obscure the light from outside. All they could see was a dim light at the end of the passage. Without speaking, they both walked further into the cave until they reached a large chamber at the end.

Three women with blood-red lines marring the white of their skin sat in a semicircle around a circle of blood-stained sand. Their heads rested on their chest, seemingly asleep. The second Macbeth stepped in the alcove, their heads whipped up and stared at the pair. “Hail Macbeth,” they said.

The witch with black hair sliced a knife through the neck of an unsuspecting rodent. “Hail, Thane of Glamis.”

The witch with piercing brown eyes carefully picked out the heart of a small grouse. “Hail, Thane of Cawdor.”

The shortest witch made a tiny cut on her ring finger. “Hail, soon to be King by witchcraft.”

The two men looked at each other, confused by this seeming prophecy. “What are you talking about?” Macbeth asked.

“And do you have a prophecy for me?” asked Banquo, frowning.

The witches looked at each other, a look of uncertainty passing through them. After a long pause, the shortest witch finally said, “Hail Banquo, father of Kings.”

Then, the three witches grabbed a handful of the blood-stained sand and threw it down before them. When the clouds of sand cleared, they were nowhere to be seen.

The two men looked at each other, confused at what magic they had just been exposed to. They walked out of the cave, and saw that the clouds had mysteriously disappeared. “So you’re going to be a king through witchcraft,” Banquo said.

“And you’re going father some kings,” said Macbeth. “Or maybe not. It isn’t necessarily a true prophecy.”

Banquo raised his eyebrows. “You saw the blood lines on their arms. They’re the mark of true witches. The prophecy had to have been a true one.”

“I suppose,” Macbeth conceded, “I should probably tell my wife about this. She’s always super interested in all of court politics and the occult and everything.”

Banquo nodded, and the two continued walking along the mountain pathway.

“Hello, my dear!” Macbeth called through his house’s entryway.

Lady Macbeth raced down the staircase, a broad smile on her bright red lips. “Hello, darling. You appear to be bearing good news of some kind,” she said.

“Indeed I do. While Banquo and I were wandering through a mountain pathway, we encountered these really weird blood witches and they said that I’d become King using witchcraft,” Macbeth said, “but I’m really confused, because there’s still a king in place right now. A good king too- Duncan’s a just ruler.”

Lady Macbeth stared incredulously at her husband with a cold gaze. “Really? You were proclaimed to be a future king by practitioners of blood magic, and you aren’t certain of the future? They only say what will happen. If it is our-your fate, we have no choice to accept it.”

“But Duncan is a good king. I don’t think it’d be best for Inverness to kill him. There’s no good reason why I should but ambition. We have a fine house here, and we’re rather wealthy too. Three weird ladies throwing prophecies at me isn’t a valid basis of government!”

Lady Macbeth drew her husband close to her. “Look, my darling. These witches know the future. I’ve read up on blood magic, and its prophecies are quite accurate. And have you no ambition? Are you afraid of witchcraft? Afraid of becoming a blood witch? It’s not that hard, darling.” Lady Macbeth pushed away from her husband and pushed up her sleeves, showing him the long spirals of blood ink on her arms.

Macbeth gasped, gaping at her arms. “You-you-you’re a-a-a-a-”

“A witch? Yes, my dear, I am. Don’t worry. We shall be able to execute Duncan fairly easily, and you will be able to become king- and I will reign beside you as queen.”

“But I’m not sure if I want to,” Macbeth said.

“All we must do is initiate you as a witch, execute Duncan, mark the guards as witches, and then you shall become king,” Lady Macbeth explained, pulling Macbeth back toward her.

“Well, I suppose…” Macbeth said, staring at the floor, “If you think it’s best…”

“Perfect. When is Duncan coming?” Lady Macbeth asked.

Macbeth awkwardly looked up. “Tonight?”

Lady Macbeth’s eyes searched around the room in exasperation. “Well we haven’t much time then! We must initiate you at once.”   
Macbeth gulped. “Um, okay.”

“Quick, I must go to my closet,” Lady Macbeth said, pulling him up the stairs, into their room. “Wait here.” She opened the door to her closet, quickly pulling some knives off of the shelves. Then, she exited her closet and threw open their second story window. Snatching Macbeth, she made a few quick slashes on her arm and jumped, tugging him behind her.

Macbeth began to scream, until Lady Macbeth put her hand over his wide mouth, saying “Hush.” They then appeared on a mountaintop. Macbeth shivered, his teeth chattering because of the cold. “I need you to take off your coat,” Lady Macbeth said.

“What?”

“Take off your coat! Your arms need to be bare. It’s only for a few minutes,” Lady Macbeth commanded.

Macbeth rolled his eyes, but took off his thick coat. “It’s no use making me a witch if I’m just going to freeze to death first.”

“Hush, darling. You need to stop being such a wimp about these things. We need your blood to freeze. Once you become a witch you won’t be cold anyway,” Lady Macbeth said. She pulled out a sheathed knife from her belt, this one with ornate spiraling designs on the handle. Taking it out of its sheath, she grabbed his arm.

“What the hell? Your hand is freezing!” Macbeth exclaimed.

“I know, I know. Now hold still, I need to cut your arm properly,” Lady Macbeth said. She carefully took the ceremonial knife and cut spiraling designs into his skin. They almost exactly matched the lines she had on hers. As blood welled up from the wound, it crystallized on the surface of his skin, forming dotted lines. 

Macbeth winced as blood hit the frigid air. “Can I put on my coat now?”

“No, we need to do the other.” Lady Macbeth sighed and did the other one, this one more quickly. “You need to wait here for about thirty minutes for your blood to properly freeze.”

“What? I’m going to freeze!”

“No! You won’t! Like I said, once you are initiated, the cold won't bother you. Your blood will become frozen and liquid ice will run in your veins. You might want to wear gloves so no one notices how cold your grip is, but you will not freeze to death. Besides,” she said, her voice growing more soothing, “I’ll be here with you the entire time.”

The pair shivered on the mountaintop, waiting as snow began falling upon Macbeth’s increasingly cold skin.

Act II

The hallway was silent and gloomy. The only source of light came from Macbeth’s dim candle. He stood silently outside the antechamber to Duncan’s room. Every few seconds, he started toward the door as though he would enter, but time after time he decided against it. He looked at his bare arms, at the blood lines which had formed on it. They sickened him, slightly. Then, the shadowy form of a cloaked woman came down the hallway.

“Have you performed the deed yet?” Lady Macbeth asked.

Macbeth looked down, chastised. “No. I’m-”   
“Afraid? Not that same excuse again. You need to do it before the silencing ward I placed wears off. Come now, it’s easy. Just make the proper cuts. You won’t even see the light leave his eyes,” Lady Macbeth said. She opened the door for him, “Just enter his bedchamber.”

Macbeth slowly walked into the chamber. After a few minutes, he came back out, his eyes wide in fear. His hands were shaking. “I-I-I did it.”

“Good, took you long enough. Now I'll mark the guards.” Walking into the room, she saw the guards fast asleep. She rolled her eyes, disappointed but not surprised by their lack of responsibility. Guards could be so predictable. It was a miracle nobody had murdered Duncan before, honestly. She quickly carved spiralling patterns into the guards' arms. They both awoke, and were about to scream, but she placed her cold, bloodied hand on their lips and they fell silent.

“MURDER! MURDER! OUR NOBLE KING IS DEAD!” Macduff shouted, running through the halls of Macbeth’s castle. His rough fist pounded on each heavy door, quickly rousing every person in the castle.

Macbeth and his wife emerged from their chamber.

"Goodness gracious! Dead?" Lady Macbeth theatrically gasped, "How terrible."

“That can’t possibly be. Let me see.” Macbeth entered Duncan’s room, and came back out, his hands bloody. “I’m sorry…”

Macduff looked back in the room. “You murdered the guards? They were our only suspects! We needed to interrogate them!”

“I’m sorry,” Macbeth said, his voice heavy, “I saw them there, the witches’ mark on their arms, and I couldn’t help myself. Anyone who executes our noble king should be executed himself!”

Macduff nodded slowly. “I see. Well, I suppose we will have elections for the king’s successor tonight. I think you’re one of the candidates, you and Malcolm, although he seems rather young to rule. Besides, he just ran away to England, so 'tis possible he ordered the king’s assassination.”

“I’ll see you tonight then,” Macbeth said.

The Thanes looked at each other around the round table. Every seat was filled, except the one elevated above the others. Duncan's seat. Macduff stood up. “As presiding officer in the king’s… absence… I declare this meeting started. On the agenda, we have the matter of the king’s successor. Who are our candidates?”

The Thane of Ross looked up from his copious notes. “Macbeth, Thane of Cawdor and Glamis, who is quite worthy in battle; and Malcolm, the former king’s son, and his selected successor who has fled to England.”

“Please pass out the voting slips, Ross,” Macduff said. Ross stood up and gave a small sheet of paper to each member. In careful script, they had the two names written on them. Each man muttered a small word of thanks, and circled their option, passing it to Macduff when done. 

Everyone was silent as Macduff looked through each. Finally, Macduff announced the results. “Macbeth, congratulations. You are now King of Inverness."

Act III

Banquo and Macbeth were going on a walk through his castle's grounds. Since Macbeth had become a witch, he had to be even more careful to always wear long sleeves. Thankfully, Inverness was almost always cold, so Macbeth's modest clothing habits were unnoticed.

"Congratulations on the kingship," Banquo said, "Seems the witches told the truth."

"Seems they did. So sorrowful that Duncan died, though," Macbeth responded, "He was a good king."

"A good king indeed," Banquo said. "I should have known witchcraft would be his demise."

Macbeth stiffened. "Ah- yes. Who would've thought the guards would have been witches."

Banquo raised an eyebrow. "Yes, the guards, witches. Interesting indeed…" He spoke slowly, suspiciously.

Macbeth saw he had to switch the subject to something far less incriminating. "So! I hear you're going to um… Ireland."

Banquo nodded, "We are, Fleance and I. It won't be the same without Amelia, but alas." Amelia was Banquo's wife who had passed away a year ago. "I figure with all this turmoil, my son and I must take our vacation early this year."

"When does the ship disembark?" asked Macbeth. If Banquo was suspicious, then he could tell someone what he had seen. Banquo was the greatest threat to Macbeth's crown. He was a loose end. And loose ends could not be left uncut.

"It departs 5:00 tomorrow." Banquo looked at his watch and drew in a sharp breath. "Oh dear! It's already 8:00 and I haven't packed. Sorry, my friend, I must go."

Macbeth nodded goodbye, and walked the path back to his room. Lost in thought, he wondered how to kill Banquo. Banquo was a good man, such a pity he had to be involved as a witness. Perhaps he could take a look at his wife's books, while she was gone on some trip. He needed to murder Banquo without doing it himself. There had to be some spell for that, else what would be the point of him becoming a blood witch. He still hasn't used any magic, save for Duncan's murder.

He perused Lady Macbeth's bookshelf, but oddly enough, didn't find any books on spells. Wait a second— no one but him knew she was a witch. Where had she stored her ceremonial knives? That's right, in the closet. 

He opened the door to the closet. It was a lot bigger than he expected. Sure enough, there was an even larger bookshelf in the back, filled with jars of floating organs and vials of blood. It was a sight which would've made the old Macbeth queasy, but now they were merely background objects. Aha! There it was,  _ Summoning Spells: Complete Edition _ .

Tugging it off the shelf, he scanned the index. Small objects...plants...people...demons. Demons sounded about right. Perhaps he could get demons to murder Banquo. He sat on his bed, and flipped to the appropriate page. It was filled with grotesque yet somehow beautiful diagrams and drawings. They displayed the appropriate cuts one must make on oneself and other animals. This one required human sacrifice. Oh dear, that would be difficult. Although, he  _ was  _ king, and what was the purpose of being king if people would not be willing to die for you?

He heard footsteps, and shoved the book into the drawer of his desk.

"What are you doing?" Lady Macbeth asked, whisking into the room with an inhuman grace. 

Macbeth stuttered. "Um, just, uh research."

"Hmm. 'Tis a pity, husband. Although we have the highest position in the country, I do not feel content." Lady Macbeth traced the lines on her arms.

"I suppose, yes" Macbeth said distractedly.

"Are you planning something?" his wife inquired.

"Yes but...nevermind," Macbeth trailed off.

"What are you plotting?"

"It doesn't concern you!" Macbeth snapped. "I mean, I will not burden you with the knowledge."

Lady Macbeth pursed her lips, about to inquire further, but decided against it. "Just don't do anything you'll regret."

"I won't."

Macbeth stood in a small clearing in the forest. A servant was sprawled in the middle, his wrists and throat slit. Blood poured from the wounds. Carefully, Macbeth siphoned the blood into a small goblet. He then took the tip of a knife, and pricked his leg, squeezing the single droplet into the goblet. Blending it with rainwater, he imbibed the goblet's contents.

From the chest of the servant, a shadow crawled out. It was pure darkness, appearing both immaterial and infinitely solid. Its hunched figure turned toward Macbeth. "Master," it hissed, "who would you have me kill?"

"Banquo and Fleance," Macbeth said, producing a hair from each.

The shadowy figure grasped the hair, sniffing it. "I see." It turned around. Spinning, it launched into the darkness. And although Macbeth could not make out distinct expressions, he could swear it was smiling. 

The wraith soared through the air. Its shape was not clear to anyone, but those that were looking up at the sky merely saw a blip in a few of the stars. It flew onto the deck of a ship destined for Ireland, walking in the shadows until it found a certain room.

It slithered under the doorway. Seeping into Banquo's shadow, it entered his body until it found the fleshy pulsing muscle. The demon squeezed the heart, and Banquo fell to the ground. 

"Father?" Fleance said, crawling toward his parent. He shook his shoulder, waiting for a response. But none came. He sat there, shaking the shoulder and calling his father's name until morning.

The wraith never did get around to killing poor Fleance because, well, Macbeth never had Fleance's hair. That hair had instead been that of Amelia's, and the shadow could not kill one who was already dead.

Macbeth, meanwhile, was waking up and putting on his cloak for his morning meeting. He had to make sure he looked respectable, for this was his first meeting as king. Even though most of the men had that bond forged in battle, with all the suspicion surrounding his title, a little caution couldn't hurt. He checked to make sure his sleeves wouldn't come up on his arms and reveal his scars. He then put on the gloves which he had taken to wearing. After he had accidentally tapped one servant with his icy hand, he had realized that people would grow suspicious. Macbeth was doing what he could to avoid suspicion.

He confidently strode down the hallway, his cloak rather satisfyingly fluttering behind him. He entered the council room, and saw the wraith hiding in a shadow in the corner. He stepped into that corner, and heard it hiss in a raspy voice, "The father dead. The son still lives," before vanishing in a dim flash of light. Macbeth blanched, not expecting this. Already, it seemed, the day was not going in his favor.

Macbeth turned back to the table, walking toward its head. But there was no place to sit. The head of the table instead had a Banquo covered in blood sitting at it. He reached out, about to touch Macbeth. Macbeth turned away, stepping back from the table in fear. "Haven't you left me a spot to sit?"

The courtiers glanced at each other nervously. Their eyes were filled with fear, and a couple of them whispered to each other. Finally, Ross said, "Ah, there is a seat open."

Macbeth frowned, "No there is not." He was trying to keep a lid on his temper, but he was finding it increasingly difficult.

"Right there," Ross pointed a shaking finger at where Banquo was sitting.

Macbeth lunged toward Ross, pulling out his chair and practically strangling him. "Does this look like a joke to you?"

Ross fervently shook his head. His face broke out into a nervous sweat.

"Husband, please let go of Ross," Lady Macbeth said, gliding into the room. "Forgive me lords, my husband is not well. It is an illness he has had since his youth." She wrapped Macbeth's arm in a firm and icy grip, tugging him back to the corner. "Get a hold of yourself, man," she whispered.

"But he's there," Macbeth said fearfully.

"Who?"

"Banquo."

"Banquo?" Lady Macbeth turned to look back at the table, and then pivoted back. "Banquo is not at the table. Where is he, by the way."

"Dead."

"What?" Lady Macbeth's grip became tighter.

"I mean, on a vacation! To Ireland!" Macbeth whispered.

“Mhm,” Lady Macbeth said, not convinced. She narrowed her eyes. “I see. Now get back to the table and at least try to appear sane.”

Macbeth took his wife's advice and went back to the table. Thankfully, Banquo was gone, and Macbeth didn't feel the slippery wetness of blood coating the chair. “Sorry, my friends.” He gave a nervous chuckle. "Just an issue I've had since my younger days. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all."

"All right," Macduff said, "The first order of business–"

"Good God!" Macbeth exclaimed. The lords looked up, startled.

Banquo had returned and was now pacing around the table. He reached Macbeth, and Banquo wrote on Macbeth's arms, drawing swirls and patterns, tracing the outlines of his bloodlines. Macbeth, to his credit, remained still, not fidgeting until Banquo spoke in his ear, "Murderer."

"Which one of you is screwing with me?" Macbeth shouted, pushing himself out of his chair, letting it topple behind him, "Which of you is it?"

"OKAY!" Lady Macbeth said, topping Macbeth's shout with an outwardly exclamation of her own. "How about we give my husband a bit of a rest, shall we? Yes, I'm so sorry for this inconvenience. My husband is not well today, I'm so sorry, so sorry." She ushered everyone but Macbeth out.

Whipping around, she asked "What do you think you're doing?"

Macbeth was unable to find a suitable answer that did not make him sound mad, which he now supposed he was. 

"Don't let it happen again. I can't always cover for you." As she swept out of the room, he heard her mutter, "Such a disappointment."

Hecate stepped back into her coven’s cave. “Hello, my sisters.” The witches bowed their heads in response. “I fear that my husband is not taking his indoctrination well.”

“What do you wish us to do?” the tallest witch asked.

The Lady tapped her long fingernails together. “Summon him here. Ensure that he does not fear the loss of the throne.”

“But my Lady-” the shortest witch said.

“I don’t care,” Hecate said. “It doesn’t matter, just be sure you do it right this time. I would not like an insane king and husband.” She made quick cuts in her arms, and jumped off the precipice, small ribbons of blood trailing out behind her.

The witches gathered in a circle. “She doesn’t know!” the brown eyed witch said, “Macbeth is falling all too soon!”

“What shall we do?” the short witch asked.

“We need not tell the whole truth,” the tall witch explained, “Here’s what I have planned…”

Act IV

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,” Macbeth muttered, dripping his blood into the sand circle he had created. He needed to see the witches, needed to know how and if and when his reign would end. There were loose ends- far too many loose ends.

The sand began to swirl, rising into the air and creating a small storm. Then, it fell back to the ground, revealing the three witches.

“Hail Macbeth!” the three said at the same time.

“Not this shit again,” Macbeth muttered to himself.

“Hail, Macbeth, who only need fear the thane of Fife!” the first witch said.

“Hail, Macbeth, harmed by no man of woman born!” the second witch called.

“Hail, Macbeth, who shall never vanquished be, ‘til Birnam Wood go to Dunsinane!” the third witch finished.

“But that’s impossible!” Macbeth exclaimed, “A forest can’t move!”

“We shall say no more!” the witches echoed, before disappearing back into the sand.

Macbeth, to say the very least, was very confused. Until Birnam Wood went to Dunsinane? Was that a metaphor for saying he would never be deposed? The “no man of woman born” also seemed to imply that, all men were born from a woman. But he needed to fear the Thane of Fife? Why did the witches have to be so ambiguous? It wouldn’t be that hard to say “Your reign will end in twenty years.” He slammed his hand on his nightstand in frustration.

“My king?” A messenger was in the doorway, looking alarmed.

Macbeth whipped around, pushing back down his sleeves and plastering a grin on his face. “Yes?”

“Macduff has fled to England,” the messenger nervously said, avoiding eye contact.

“Fled to England?” Macbeth shouted.

“Yes?” the messenger answered.

“Get out!” Macbeth slammed the door as the messenger scampered out.

He was screwed. Macduff had been suspicious from the beginning. How had he not seen it? And now Macduff was leaving. This did not bode well for Macbeth. He paced in his room. What could he do? How could he intimidate Macduff? Then it occurred to him- Macduff may be gone, but his family was not.

Lady Macduff was furious. Her husband had fled to England, leaving her and their children behind. She had to learn it from Ross. How dare he leave without them? If there was danger, then he could at least warn them! “Your father is a traitor,” she informed her son.

Ross laid a hand on her shoulder, “You don’t know that, it may have been wisdom, not fear.”

Lady Macduff slapped his hand off. “Yeah right. It’s  _ wise _ to leave his entire family behind! If Inverness isn’t safe then the very least he could do is invite us to come with him!”

“But, madam,” he stuttered, pushing his glasses up his nose, and dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, “Perhaps he’s going into danger.”

“He should have informed me, at least. If not of the danger, at least his departure. Besides, I could’ve helped him.” Lady Macduff paced the room.

“What’s wrong, mama?” her son asked.

“Your father is dead,” Lady Macduff said.

“Dead?”

“Dead to me,” Lady Macduff repeated. 

“I’m going to go,” Ross said, “this is getting a bit awkward.” He walked out the back door.

Lady Macduff totally ignored Ross. “Your father is a traitor.”

The boy cocked his head, “What’s a tray-tor?”

“Someone who makes a promise then lies,” she explained.

“What’d Daddy promise?” her son asked.

“That he’d keep us safe and be honest with me,” she said.

The door was suddenly flung open, and a disheveled messenger came inside. “You have to go! Macbeth’s-a-witch-and-he’s-gonna-kill-you!”

“Come again?” Lady Macduff asked.

The messenger gasped for breath. “Macbeth, witch, kill you.”

Lady Macduff didn’t quite understand what the messenger was saying. Macbeth was a witch? Who would kill her? Where on earth did the messenger get such ideas. The possibility of Macbeth killing her was not the confusing part, it was the accusation of witchcraft.

“I have to go now! He might know I saw him!” The messenger left as quickly as he had come.

Suddenly, a bloody circle appeared on the floor, and Macbeth appeared in the center. Lady Macduff gasped. 

“What’s going on, mama?” asked her son.

Lady Macduff moved her son behind her back. But she should have known better, for Macbeth was a witch. Merely being out of eyesight was nothing compared to Macbeth’s ruthless witchcraft. He lunged forward, procuring a knife and vial from beneath his fur cloak. He made deep gashes all over Lady Macduff’s arms, filling his vial with blood. Gasping as he slit her throat, Lady Macduff slumped onto the floor.

Macbeth moved on to the son, filling a new vial with the boy’s blood. He didn’t particularly need this blood, but it could be useful at some point or another. So many spells seemed to require human blood, and it’d be a waste not to collect some, particularly the boy’s blood. Witchcraft seemed to love the blood of young children. He walked up to the second floor of the Macduff’s house. For whatever reason, teleportation spells always required falling out of windows. It certainly wasn’t for those with a fear of heights.

Macduff knocked on Malcolm’s front door. After he had seen the tips of Macbeth’s blood lines on the night of Duncan’s murder, he had been suspicious. Macbeth’s fit at the meeting also didn’t help. So he went to the only person he knew of who could help. Malcolm.

Malcolm opened the door, a bit surprised to see Macduff standing there looking slightly disheveled. Visits from Macduff weren’t all that uncommon, but unannounced ones were quite unusual. “Hello, my friend. What brings you here?”

“Macbeth,” Macduff simply explained.

“Come inside,” Malcolm responded. He invited Macduff into his sitting room, and had a servant make the two of them drinks. “What happened?”

“Macbeth murdered Duncan and Banquo and is now king. He’s also a blood witch and started hallucinating in his first meeting,” Macduff explained.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “So?”

“I would like you to help me rally an army, I know you have plenty of supporters, especially now. You should overthrow Macbeth and become king,”

Malcolm choked on his tea and started sputtering. He was shocked by the request, particularly because it was Macduff who delivered it. Macduff was one of the most rule-abiding people Malcolm had ever met. Besides, Malcolm was only 18, and probably not old enough to run a country. This had to be a joke. “I would not be a suitable king at all.”

“Whyever not?”

“I’m  _ 18 _ ,” Malcolm pointed out.

Macduff shrugged. “You’re far more responsible than half the thirty year olds I know. You’ve been trained for this from birth.”

Okay, Malcolm thought. Macduff might be more scheming than Malcolm had previously thought. Macduff of all people wouldn’t support someone who was nearly a child ruling. He had to figure out if Macduff was actually loyal to him, for if Macduff was not loyal to the king (which he always had been in the past), was Macduff loyal to anyone at all? “I am also insanely lustful.”

Macduff raised an eyebrow. “Really? You haven’t mentioned any women when I previously talked to you.”

“Um. That’s because if I did I knew you would be...disgusted by my insatiable lust.” How the heck did lustful people talk? Malcolm had never really thought much about women-or men, for that matter- in that way, but for whatever reason, that was the first thing his foolish brain thought of. “Not all the ladies in the state could satisfy me. Macbeth may be an angry man, but I would hardly be able to rule for my constant desire.”

Macduff looked vaguely uncomfortable. “That may be, but it is better than raw tyranny. We would definitely be able to find enough women.”

Clearly Macduff didn’t view lustfulness to be quite the sin Malcolm thought he’d think it was. “Also I’m super greedy and would take all the thanes’ land for myself and just build giant castles on them. I would, um, waste the kingdom’s coffers on wild parties and gold threaded clothing. Oh I can see it already- massive orgies with nothing but the best. Every weekend, a different party. The entire funds at my disposal, well. There is so much I would love to do with that. And I could certainly use more castles.”.

Macduff’s self restraint snapped at this point. “You are not even-no, you would make a  _ terrible _ king! A horrendous one! You can’t possibly be that selfish! You are not fit even to  _ live _ . Good God, how did you disguise this before?” He clenched his hands into fists to prevent himself from immediately strangling Malcolm. “You are- how can you-”

“Haha, kidding! I’m kidding!” Malcolm exclaimed. “I wanted to make sure you were loyal to the kingdom, not, like, scheming or anything.”

Macduff slumped in relief. “Thank goodness,” he said.

There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” Malcolm called.

Ross stepped inside, wringing his hat. “I am so, so, sorry Macduff.”

“Why?” Macduff asked, confused, “Is my family well?”

“Ah-yes.” Ross said nervously.

“Has Macbeth disturbed their peace?”

“Um, well, they were definitely...at peace when I left them.” Ross was backing up against the wall, getting as far away from Macduff as possible.

“Just tell me the news,” Macduff said.

“Your family is dead.”

Macduff collapsed in his chair. He had feared this to be true, but hearing it out loud… “All of them?”

“Every one. The servants too,” Ross said,

Macduff roughly breathed in and out, trying to calm himself down. But he couldn’t. His breath only grew more shaky, until it was all uneven. His face grew red, and he let out a sob. 

“Come on, Macduff. You’re a man,” Malcolm said.

“Yes, that means I must bear it like a man too,” Macduff said, somehow managing to get the words out.

Malcolm looked around. He had never been good with public displays of emotion, he was the type who preferred to keep it inside. “Well, um, convert that to anger. We have a king to overthrow.”

Macduff looked up, eyes filled with hatred. Malcolm was quite thankful that hatred was not directed at him. “Indeed we do.”

Act V

The court was abuzz with gossip. No one talked about it in full volume, it was merely whispers behind hands and odd gazes at Lady Macbeth.

The previous night, Lady Macbeth had been seen wandering around the castle in a sleeveless dressing gown. It was the sleeveless part that was the issue. For that meant that Lady Macbeth's arms and bloodlines were on display for anyone who was up at that late hour. She was seen scratching at them, wiping them as though trying to erase them, sometimes even drawing blood. Macbeth had privately met with a doctor and demanded that he cure these wanderings.

Although being a witch was not a crime, it was still quite frowned upon. After all, people rarely became a witch to do good in the world. Some did it to tell prophecies about others (one could never see their own future), but most did it with more dangerous purposes. Like, for instance, to kill a king.

It now seemed to much of the court that both of the Macbeths were going mad. Lady Macbeth's fits were simply restricted to the night time.

It seemed to confirm that Macbeth may be a witch too, for the messenger had told the other servants of Macbeth's bloodlines. Slowly, news of Macbeth being a witch trickled throughout the castle. It certainly didn't help that Macduff confirmed these rumors.

Much of the court was also starting to leave for England, to join the army Macduff and Malcolm were raising.

One day, Macbeth entered the meeting room to find it merely half full. All conversation ceased, confirmation they were speaking of him or his wife. “What were you talking about?” he asked.

The courtiers and thanes looked at each other nervously, each unwilling to say.

“Well, what was it?” he asked. They remained silent. “Look, if you don't tell me, I will have to resort to–”

He was cut off by Seyton entering the room. “My king, Malcolm is marching here with an army!”

Macbeth gave loud laugh in response. This only served to confirm his madness to everyone else in the room. “Hah! They cannot harm me! For my reign shall never end til Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane! Come, let us prepare for war!”

“How shall we sneak up on Macbeth's army?” Menteith asked, “For they hold the advantage in all other ways. If we don't have surprise, then we have nothing.”

The army was meeting in a clearing in a forest. Malcolm was sitting at their head. “Look around us, at Birnam Wood. We are surrounded by perfect disguise material. Let us strap this wood to ourselves, and then they won't see us until we are very close. It will give us more time.”

The soldiers nodded, impressed with their leader's inventiveness. This only served to affirm to them that he would make a great king.

Meanwhile, Macbeth lounged in his tower, awaiting news from his lookouts. He was not particularly nervous about the war, for the witches had gotten rid of all his doubt.

That is, until Seyton entered. “I bring more news, my king.”

“Yes, well, get on with it.” Macbeth was distracted, reading his book, only half listening.

“Birnam Wood is moving.”

Macbeth snapped his book shut. “What?”

“Um yes. I was on my watch and then it appeared like the forest was moving.”

“Are you serious?” Macbeth asked, his anger growing.

“Yes,” Seyton responded, drawing back.

“I swear if you are lying I will–”

“There is other bad news,” Seyton added.

Macbeth's stomach dropped. What else could be going wrong?

“Lady Macbeth is dead,” Seyton said solemnly, “She was seen jumping off a tower, her wrists cut.”

Macbeth laughed, “She's not dead! She was doing a spell!”

Seyton shook his head. “No, my king, we all saw her hit the ground.”

That sobered Macbeth a great deal. “Well, I suppose she would have died anyway. If only she had died later, there would be time for mourning. But now, well, we have other things to do.”

Macbeth heard shouts of war outside, and finished buckling on his armor. It was time to fight.

Macduff fought through the field, searching for one person. He was a formidable opponent, slicing his way through Macbeth's forces with ease, despite his distracted state. “Where is Macbeth?" he muttered to himself, “I must have my revenge!” At last, he saw Macbeth.

Macbeth was a war machine unto himself. He was worth ten soldiers, spinning around, impaling opposing soldiers with ease. “Ha! You were born of woman,” he said, stabbing “And you! And you!” If there had been any doubt as to Macbeth's sanity, this confirmed them all.

“Macbeth!” Macduff said, “Come here and face me like a man.”

“Ha!” Macbeth walked toward Macduff. “Alright then. You're begging for death, though, you were of woman born!”

“I welcome it. Besides,” Macduff made a stab at Macbeth, “I was not of woman born. I was a C-section! I was untimely ripped from my mother's womb!” 

Macbeth faltered for half a second. This was all Macduff needed to turn the tide. He slashed Macbeth's sword away, and plunged his sword into Macbeth's chest.

All around them, the battle slowed to a standstill, as everyone watched Macbeth the Witch King bleed out onto the soil. From the back of the fighting, there was a cheer, which overtook the entire crowd.

“All hail Malcolm,” Macduff shouted, “King of Inverness!”


End file.
